


Greenland is Made of Ice

by alenie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alenie/pseuds/alenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More time passes and he’s shivering and trying to breathe through the pain when he hears a noise off to the right. He thinks maybe he should do something, like call out, or—or hide, he doesn’t know. He’s tired. He sneezes and then goes stock-still because what if it’s some kind of monster rustling around out there and he just gave away his position?</p><p>“Stiles?” a voice calls, and oh god, that’s his dad’s voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greenland is Made of Ice

These days, when Stiles gets injured, it’s more often than not because of the supernatural, and Derek’s usually around to patch him up or cart him home.

Derek’s not there when Stiles breaks his ankle. No one’s there, as a matter of fact, and when Stiles gets it together enough to look for his phone, he realizes that it fared even worse in his collision with the ground than his ankle did. It must’ve hit a rock, because the screen is shattered and no matter how many times he jabs at the power button, it won’t come on.

He’s not even sure what he tripped on. A root? It’s not like it matters. He’s in the woods on his own, and no one knows where he is.

Moving slowly, he manages to sit up and lean back against a tree. There’s a thin trail of blood running down one leg, and his palms are scraped to hell, but those minor pains are all overshadowed by the fucking awful throbbing coming from his ankle. Shit.

He should try to get up, try to find some way out of this mess, but instead he lets his head thump back against the tree trunk, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes.

 _Not going to cry, not going to cry, not going to cry_ , he chants to himself. Crying would be stupid and not at all helpful, but his ankle hurts like a motherfucker and he’s alone in the forest and he wants his dad and tears leak out from under his hands no matter how hard he tries to hold them back.

He allows himself a solid five minutes to wallow before he sniffs resolutely and wipes his face with his hoodie. It’s going to get dark soon and he at least has to _try_ to get out of here. He pulls himself upright using the tree behind him and ends up clinging to its branches, afraid to let go. His head feels kind of…spinny. Is he going into shock? Is that even a thing, with broken ankles? He assumes it’s broken. Mostly because it hurts so much.

“Deep breaths, Stiles,” he mutters to himself. He estimates he’s about two miles from the nearest road. If he can just make it to the road, he’ll be okay. He can do this.

He can’t do this. He takes one hopping step forward and he’s not even putting any weight on his injured ankle but it hurts like a bitch, and he gasps and clutches at the nearest tree. Okay, so he definitely won’t be going anywhere. He’ll just sit and—crap. How is he going to sit down without jostling his ankle?

He ends up hugging the tree and sinking to the ground as slowly as he can. As careful as he is, he still bumps his ankle and his vision goes kind of fuzzy with the pain.

Half an hour goes by and the sun sets and the temperature starts dropping. Yeah, he lives in California, but unlike what the rest of the country thinks, it’s not always balmy out. Especially not in the fall, not when you live in the more northern parts of the state, like Stiles does.

More time passes and he’s shivering and trying to breathe through the pain when he hears a noise off to the right. He thinks maybe he should do something, like call out, or—or hide, he doesn’t know. He’s tired. He sneezes and then goes stock-still because what if it’s some kind of monster rustling around out there and he just gave away his position?

“Stiles?” a voice calls, and oh god, that’s his dad’s voice.

“Dad?” Stiles says shakily, peering into the darkness. His dad walks out of the gloom, followed by Derek. “ _Dad_.”

“Stiles,” his dad says, equally choked, and crouches next to Stiles, anxiously looking him over. He reaches a hand out but pauses midway, like he’s afraid of accidentally hurting him. Stiles fits his arms around his dad’s middle and leans in as much as he can, and his dad’s arms go around his shoulders and they hold each other for a long minute.

“I think my ankle’s broken,” Stiles says when he pulls back. There’s a damp spot on his dad’s shirt where his face was pressed. “I can’t walk.”

His dad nods. “Jesus, Stiles, I thought you were—” He cuts himself off. “We need to get you to the hospital stat, kiddo. Derek, can you carry him?”

Derek stops lurking and comes and crouches at Stiles’ other side. “Take a deep breath,” he advises Stiles, and then he’s lifting Stiles up and _oh god it hurts_ and Stiles passes out.

*

Stiles comes home from the hospital pleasantly drugged and patched up with a bright green cast. He tries to argue for Derek being allowed to stay over, but he’s too loopy to make a convincing case for it. His dad sends Derek home, promising that he can come back in the morning for breakfast. (Before Derek leaves, though, he sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed and pets his hair and leans down to kiss him on the forehead. It’s disgustingly sweet and Stiles loves it.)

It’s hard to lie down comfortably with a cast on. He supposes he’ll get used to it, but tonight he feels achy, even with the medication, and he tries out what feel like a hundred different positions. When his dad comes to check on him, he’s still wide awake, curled onto his side.

“You need anything, kiddo?”

“No,” Stiles grouses. “I just can’t sleep with this stupid cast on.”

“You want me to sit with you for a minute?”

Stiles hesitates. It’s late. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“I took the day off.”

“Oh. You didn’t have to. I’ll be okay.”

His dad makes a face at him and carefully sits on the bed. “You broke your ankle; I think I’m allowed to worry about you. And I’m staying home tomorrow. Don’t argue with me.”

“’m not arguing,” Stiles says. He’s not. He just doesn’t want his dad missing work because of him. “Can we have waffles for breakfast?”

“Sure thing. Does Derek like waffles?”

“Everybody likes waffles,” Stiles mumbles. He’s getting sleepy all of a sudden, and he yawns and yanks at his sheets. They’ve gotten tangled from all his shifting around.

“Let me,” his dad says, and pulls them straight and tucks them more firmly around him. “There, is that better?”

Stiles nods from within his cozy blanket huddle and his dad smiles tiredly at him and reaches out to rub his shoulder. 

“Get some sleep,” he advises. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

*

The next couple weeks are torture for Stiles. It’s not that his dad won’t lethim out of the house, but he’s definitely been hovering a lot more than usual, and Stiles sticks close to home to keep him from worrying. But eventually enough is enough and he escapes over to Derek’s.

Right now Stiles is lying on his stomach on Derek’s bed, his laptop propped up on his chemistry textbook so it doesn’t overheat.

“Did you know,” he says, twisting to face Derek, “that Greenland is made of ice, but Iceland has a penis museum?”

Derek chokes on his croissant and coughs, spraying crumbs everywhere. He takes a long drink of water while Stiles smirks at him.

“What the hell,” he says finally.

Stiles only grins wider. “Do you know how big whale penises get?” he says conversationally. “I saw a picture.” 

Derek definitely does not want to know. But knowing Stiles, he’s not going to get much choice in the matter.

“It was _longer than I am tall_ ,” Stiles says reverentially, ignoring Derek’s silence. “It was _majestic_.” 

“You’re such a freak,” Derek mutters.

Stiles isn’t deterred in the slightest. He types something, clicks a couple times, and angles his laptop towards Derek.

“Look,” he insists, and Derek glances over and then has to do a double-take. Holy crap. That thing is _huge_. And kind of gross-looking, honestly, all whitish and preserved in some kind of fluid. Seeing it makes Derek want to cross his legs. He resists; Stiles would notice and make fun of him.

“Maybe you should donate yours,” he says instead. 

“Nah, they already have a human specimen.”

Of course they do. 

“Besides, you’d miss my dick too much, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Stiles stretches luxuriously.

“Oh, I think you do, hot stuff. C’mere.” 

Stiles pouts when Derek doesn’t move.

“ _Please_ come here? Fuck, I can’t wait till I get this cast off.” 

He sounds all at once unhappy and exasperated, and Derek winces. He knows Stiles hates his cast, hates the way it limits his mobility. Without lacrosse he has no outlet for all his excess energy, and it makes him alternately irritable and hyped up like he’s had too much sugar.

“Fine,” Derek says. He takes Stiles’ laptop away and carefully sets it on the desk before stretching out next to him. “What’s so important that I had to come over here?” 

“I just really wanna kiss you,” Stiles says, and tugs at the front of Derek’s t-shirt. Derek obediently settles himself over Stiles, mindful of his cast, and kisses the tip of his nose.

“Not like that,” Stiles grumps. Derek kisses his cheek, his forehead, and his ear in quick succession and Stiles gives up pretending to be angry at him and laughs. 

“What the hell are you doing, you big weirdo?”

“Kissing you,” Derek says, like it’s obvious, and kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles turns his head and fits his lips against Derek’s, wrapping his arms around Derek’s back, as if to keep from getting away. But Derek’s not going anywhere. He lets Stiles take more of his weight and presses him down into the bed, enjoying the feel of Stiles’ body under his, warm and eager. 

They don’t do anything more than kiss. Stiles talks a big talk, but they’ve been taking it slow. After they told his dad about their budding relationship, he sat Stiles down and they had a talk, and what Stiles seems to have taken from it is that he should never ever ever pressure someone into sex. Derek’s pretty sure that can’t be all they talked about—according to Stiles, they were talking for _hours_ —but Stiles has fixated on it pretty strongly. So they’ve agreed not to rush into anything, and mostly when they’re alone they stick to making out and trying not to just give in and dry-hump each other into oblivion.

(The furthest they’ve ever gotten is once when Stiles accidentally came in his pants when their make out session got a little too heavy. But they don’t talk about that. Stiles gets embarrassed.) 

Usually they’re pretty good at keeping things slow, but Stiles hasn’t been to Derek’s since he got out of the hospital, and they get carried away after a while, Stiles clutching at Derek’s shoulders and trying to pull Derek down against him. Derek forgets himself for a minute, rocks down against Stiles. He snaps out of it when he realizes that not only is _he_ half-hard, but Stiles feels raring to go too, persistently hard against his thigh. And it would be better _not_ to have a repeat of The Incident That Shall Not Be Named. Stiles grins at him sheepishly when Derek pulls away and sits up.

“I can’t help it when you kiss me like that.” 

“Do you need to uh, go take care of it?” Derek asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Just gimme a minute,” Stiles says. “God, this is uncomfortable. Um, don’t look?” 

Derek stares at him, confused.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles says. “Fine, whatever.” He shoves his hand down his pants and does some quick rearranging. “Ah. So much better.” 

Derek can’t stop staring at Stiles’ hand. Stiles’ hand that was just _touching his dick_.

“Should I not have done that? Fuck, sorry, I wasn’t thinking—” 

“What? No, it’s fine.”

Derek sucks at being reassuring. Stiles props himself up on one elbow, still looking worried. 

“Dude, your face got all…” Stiles does an impression of Derek that hopefully is not very accurate. “Talk to me, I can’t read your mind.”

“It’s really nothing.” 

“You sure?”

“Jesus, Stiles. I’m sure. Now c’mere.” 

He holds out his arm and Stiles is quick to snuggle up to Derek’s side, Derek’s arm draped around his shoulders.

“What time do you need to be home by?” 

“Hmm, probably by six for dinner. You wanna come?”

Derek takes Stiles’ hand ( _not_ the one that was just on his dick) and interlaces their fingers. 

“I better not. You should spend some time with your dad.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past two weeks?” 

Derek can’t hold back his snort of laughter, and Stiles pounces on the opening.

“ _Derek_ ,” he whines. “Please come? My dad won’t mind.” 

“You’re sure?” Derek says, but it’s as good as a yes and Stiles knows it.

**Author's Note:**

> Iceland’s penis museum is very much an [actual thing](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icelandic_Phallological_Museum).
> 
> This is a repost from [my tumblr](http://alenie.tumblr.com). Come talk to me and we can yell at each other about Dylan O'Brien's face.


End file.
